Because I Want You
by fangirlgonewild
Summary: Spoilers for 4.10 Something Nice Back Home, Off the island, Jack encounters Kate over and over again, in the strangest of situations. Jate. Rating for language, and possible mild sexuality.


The door slams behind him, crashing against his unsteady legs and forcing him to stumble forward into the wall. Jack peels the jacket off, tossing it into a corner—there's no one to impress, and he doesn't really care what the apartment looks like anymore. It's a place to stop, to sleep, to leave.

And to get a drink, because he really fucking needs one. He thinks that he might have some beer in the fridge. Maybe. He can't really remember, but, Jack thinks with a half-pitying smile, he can't really remember much these days. Or maybe he remembers too much.

Jack ambles toward the kitchen, surprised to find the all the lights on. He squints into the brightness, because illumination is something he's studiously avoided, really.

She's there.

Sitting at a table, wearing nice pants and a polite top. It almost looks like she's come from an office, which is stupid, because they both know that she doesn't work. And certainly not in an office, which means she hardly needs to dress this politely. She stands up, picking up her purse from the table out of habit.

"Kate," he says, by way of greeting, then continues on his path to the fridge.

He yanks on the handle, pleased to find a few bottles of Budweiser on the mostly-empty shelves. Popping the top off one, he turns back to face her. Kate is biting her lip, staring at the beer in his hands.

"Jack," she starts, stepping forward, "do you really think that's such a good idea?"

"Wow," he responds, rolling his eyes, "what a way to break the silent treatment. A lecture."

Kate flinches and looks down at the floor. Jack shrugs off the gesture; it's hardly the worst thing he's ever said to her. He leans back against the counter, rolling the bottle in his hands and picking at the label as she winds and unwinds the strap of her bag from her wrist.

"I didn't come here to tell you what to do."

Jack lifts the bottle to his lips, takes a swig, and nods his head. When she doesn't continue, he gestures with his hands, _carry on, I'm listening_, but mostly he isn't, because he's heard it all before.

Kate shakes her head, disgusted and annoyed. Her eyes well up, just a little, and Jack is amused, she hasn't pulled that trick in a while.

"You aren't even going to ask why I'm here?"

"Well, Kate, I figured you'd get around to it eventually," he laughs, adding sarcastically, "Especially now that we're talking again, it makes it a lot easier to communicate, you know."

"This isn't a joke, Jack."

He smiles, because it kind of is, his life and what it has become. Kate is shaking her head again, exasperated. Jack nods good-night to her and wanders into his bedroom, collapsing against the door as it closes. He wonders how long she'll stay this time, if she'll be there in the morning when he wakes.

Kate once told him that he was always in constant motion, always looking to achieve something, seeking out the next destination. He'd asked her if there was something wrong with that, and she'd just smiled, whispering that eventually he'd have to be content with what he had.

Jack found it difficult to put much stock in her advice, however. It's not that it wasn't sound, practical advice—logical, even. It's who it was coming from.

After all, it's not like she was really there.

_Six months earlier_

Jack hasn't seen her in two weeks, and even he's the only one who knows he's a wreck.

His bedside manner was pretty shitty to start with, so when he starts snapping at nurses, they just opt to leave him alone, trading knowing looks and sidling off. He suspects that they must heave sighs of relief when they round the corner, leaving his sightline, but he doesn't much care one way or the other.

Jack ducks into the restroom, leaning on the counter for support. It's been a long day, he muses, scrubbing his hands over his face. His temple is starting to throb, a headache unfurling its tentacles just beneath the surface of his skin.

He fishes in his pocket, coming up empty. Maybe in his jacket?

Jack watches his hands shake a little as he investigates the folds and hidden crevasses. Revolted, he looks away, looks anywhere, looks up at his own reflection, taking note of the light sheen of sweat covering his face. How did this get this far?

He shifts his weight, and the coat rattles softly. Bingo. His fingers close around a little orange bottle, black letters on blue and pink boxes spelling out J-A-C-K S-H-E-P-H-A-R-D, but meaning D-I-S-A-S-T-E-R.

He decides not to drive just yet, instead ditching his bag and his jacket in his locker and taking one of the carefully sculpted paths that lead away from the hospital in deliberate arcs and twisty turns. There's a way to get to an overlook he knows of, a spot where he can watch the waves.

He turns a corner, and she's there.

Kate's long hair hangs in familiar tangled waves, the kind he wants to run his fingers through and get caught in. She's leaning on the railing, staring at the dying sun as it slips below the waterline, coloring the water blood red. He's tentative, approaching the edge with feet of space stretching between them.

"I can see you, you know," she quips, not turning her head.

"Not trying to hide," he responds softly.

Jack lets the words fade into a silence that could be companionable, if only he could stop thinking about her so loudly.

"I didn't know you knew about this place," he finally says.

She looks at him out of the corner of her eye, measuring something.

"I met you here for lunch once, liked it."

"The lunch or the view?"

Kate chuckles, and he's surprised and pleased—he can still make her laugh, despite everything.

"Both," she admits.

"Kate?"

"Mmm?"

"How's Aaron?"

She's caught in a moment of hesitation, biting her lip. He knows he has no right to ask, after what he's said and done, but he's endlessly curious about her day—their days.

"He's doing okay," she concedes, "I should get back."

"Of course."

She turns, heading to the car he hadn't taken note of before. She unlocks the door; out of habit he holds it open, ever the gentleman. It's a little selfish, he thinks, because he pauses instead of closing it firmly.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"I know," she looks at him sadly, "See you around, Jack."

He watches her car pull away, leaving him alone in the gathering dark.

He heads back into the hospital, trying to remember if he'd tossed his keys into his bag—he hated digging for them while standing stupidly by his car. He's still thinking through his morning when he notices the receptionist waving at him.

"Dr. Shephard?" She shrinks away as he comes close, blurting out her next words too quickly, "There's a woman in the waiting area asking for you."

Jack turns to follow her outstretching finger, finding Kate sitting by a window. He blinks, confused.

Kate glances up, standing when she spots him.

"Finally," she says brusquely, "they told me you'd already left, but I saw your car. Thought I'd wait for you."

He doesn't say anything, mesmerized by the way her hair falls over her shoulders when it's straightened, shining like glass. She checks her watch, raising her eyebrows and shaking her head.

"I didn't think it would be an hour. Listen, I've got to go, but I wanted to give you some of your stuff."

"An hour?" Jack repeats dumbly.

"Yeah," she says, then adds, "I mean, I had a book. I just…I hate to impose on my sitter."

"You've been here, right here, for an hour?" He puts a hand to his head.

Concern flashes in her eyes for a split second, and she steps forward, almost touching him with outstretched fingers. But she thinks better of it, lifting the handles of a paper bag full of clothing, handing it to him without touching his fingers.

"Yeah, about an hour," she confirms.

"I just saw you, ten minutes ago. You looked…different." Jack muses, watching her gather her purse.

"A lot of things are different, Jack."

And she's gone, walking out the sliding doors without looking back at him once. The throbbing pain in his head is back, joined by the dull ache now spreading up his arm. Shifting the bag that held his life with her, he turns his feet toward the locker room and decides to worry about it later.

That was the first time.


End file.
